The Cross on the Cheek

When kids get sick and you don’t know what’s wrong, terrifying is the only word that seems to fit. Everyone question seems to scream in your head and the only thing you can think of is how you would do absolutely anything to make sure they’re ok.

Last week our 7 month old girl was teething and seemed to have a little cold. She popped her first tooth Monday night.

Thursday night I put her to bed, thankful that seemed to be doing much better.

The next morning she woke up with a strange rash on her body. The two hours between when she woke up and when the doctor’s office opened seemed to drag on.

By the time our appointment came, the rash had spread significantly, almost her entire body was covered in spots and red sections.

Our wonderful doctor was surprised to see this rash, and called in another doctor for a second opinion. They both suspected measles.

Measles? Isn’t their a vaccination for that? It must be really serious! (That’s what was swirling in my head).

As we were moved to an isolation room, and then ushered out a back door so not to spread disease, my panic started to increase.

After a nose swab, blood tests, trying to get a urine sample  and numerous calls from specialists, health nurses, and other medical staff we went home to wait to hear what was next.

After a restless night (more for me than for her), we woke up to see that the rash changed to more of a solid red with blotches.


I took her right back to emergency (I had been told to bring her in immediately if anything changed).

During the two minute cold, dark drive back to the hospital, tears streamed down my face, threatening to freeze to my cheeks. If anything happened to her, I would die inside. Jesus, you just have to give the doctors wisdom.

We got in right away, and because of the dramatic look of the rash everyone came to look. Unfortunately, that made me a lot more concerned.

That’s when I was looking in her eyes telling her how much I loved her and that she was going to be ok, when I saw something on her cheek.

It was a cross.



The cross that my Jesus died on for the sins and sickness of the world.

I held her close knowing that she was covered by the blood of Christ and she was going to be ok.

Right after that the doctor came and said that this was definitely an allergic reaction, not a mysterious disease.

Three doses of benedryl and a couple hours of observation later, we were home and on the mend.

This could seem like a story of needless worrying, but I hold this in my heart as the time that God revealed himself as Jehovah Rapha – our healer. He stamped an image on Amayah (whose name I love to remind myself means “close to God”) that showed his promise to keep her safe.

Yet it was our weaknesses he carried;
it was our sorrows that weighed him down.
And we thought his troubles were a punishment from God,
a punishment for his own sins!
But he was pierced for our rebellion,
crushed for our sins.
He was beaten so we could be whole.
He was whipped so we could be healed.

Isaiah 53:4-5


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